


Nightmare

by drvology



Category: Batman (Unspecified canon), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2017-10-17 20:37:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drvology/pseuds/drvology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce stared, felt glazed over, like the world was transmitting to him through a fog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> B:TAS is my favorite Batverse incarnation; it's become my default setting when imagining the characters &c. That established, I think the fic I write can be aptly labeled 'canon & time nonspecific.'  
> → Written in an hour for 60_minute_fics challenge group @ LJ || 051107 Prompt #2 _Whoops. Nevermind. Hey, you remember that one season finale of 'Dallas', the one where Pam finds Bobby in the shower, but he supposedly died almost a whole season earlier? Portray an equally cheesy example of that always annoying (yet ever popular) writer's hack, the deus ex machina. In a nutshell, kill off, royally screw, and/or just generally fuck up the life of someone, or even several someones in your favorite fandom, and then 'treat' us to an outlandish and highly improbable solution._

Bruce staggered and put his hand to his forehead. It was wet, sticky. Hot. He groaned and blinked at his palm. Blood. It had started to dry in clumps in his hair, ran free in drips off his brow.

He took a step, scrubbed against a wall with his whole side, dug in with his shoulder and managed to keep upright. It was brick, rough and cold. Bruce stared, felt glazed over, like the world was transmitting to him through a fog.

Dark and dank. Uneven ground--cobblestones. Musty smell, not entirely unpleasant with the now and again whiff of urine. Dog piss, human piss. Hulking shapes along the walls, shadowed and dented. He sucked in air, tilted forward as dizziness assailed him, gripped his thighs so he didn't pitch over completely. Breathed through the shock and nausea.

Dumpsters. They were dumpsters.

Something he recognized, so familiar this setting. He fit the jumbled parts together and fought past the greater part of himself that wanted to drop back down, succumb to the distorted fatigue that tempted at the edges.

Bruce pushed his palms into the wall and made himself stand. He squared his shoulder, righted. Shook his head and brushed the blood away with a swipe of his wrist.

Get out of this alley. Find safety. Then determine why he was hurt and left here.

He allowed himself to use the wall as support as he walked towards the halo of hazy amber light that shafted past the alley. That had to be the street, or a connecting byway. As he went he checked himself, inventory, gathered his wits.

Dress shirt. Suit pants. Socks and shoes still on. No jacket. Wallet and watch missing. Monogrammed scarf gone with the jacket. Turned under ankle that burned with each step, crimp near his heart at his ribs, ache of kidneys. So he'd been rumbled as Bruce--mugged perhaps--doing what before he couldn't remember, no real clues in what he still had, in what was missing.

The corner of the building was worn down, softened by time and erosion to a round that fit comfortably to the cup of his palm. Bruce held on and took stock. Could make out in the distance a street sign but couldn't read it from here; the white letters blurred and danced on top of green, wouldn't comprehend no matter if he blinked and glared or tried to rely on his periphery. It was quiet, here, obviously run down. Most of the storefronts were boarded over, facades crumbling, sidewalks decaying in clumps down into potholed pavement.

He squinted and huffed. Not Gotham; he knew every corner like this in Gotham.

Bruce closed his eyes and swayed. _Bludhaven_.

Concern and fury cut into him and he found steel instead of grit, pushed from the building and strode purposefully for the intersection at his near left. Was he here alone. Why was he in Bludhaven. Had Dick needed him? What of Dick.

He clenched his jaw, fists, let anger rise and strengthen him.

Paper crackled beneath his feet and tincans scattered. He kicked them, furious and precise, batted the flyaway leaf of newsprint that had lifted on a gust of wind and swirled around him. It caught, wrapped at his arm, and he tugged it loose.

Before he could crunch it into a ball and toss it aside vibrant, bold print leaped out at him. Demanded he read, that he come to a stop.

 _Caped Crusader Unmasked! Wayne Disgraced!_

Sweat broke out all over his body, a netting of pinpricks, uncomfortable and itchy and suddenly too warm. He scanned the article, read over Wayne Enterprises' sudden downturn then collapse. The Manor, seized, ransacked by the Feds, by the horde of prying eyes that printed this. Every other piece out there that must be screaming the same. The Batcave discovered, dismantled.

Bruce swallowed and nothing to go down, tight and dry. There was a picture of Alfred being led away--where god _where_ \--the caption didn't specify, merely stated the faithful butler that had known all, had been a willing accomplice. Alfred's head was downbent, shoulders tense and body ramrod with dignity. He was in handcuffs.

The article didn't have pictures or mention of Dick. Tim. Bruce choked, remembered suddenly to breathe. What of Barbara? What of his _family?_

He folded the paper into his hand, crushed in a pinwheel by his fist, held it to his leg. He recognized the north-south street, started running. Almost tripped forward from the rush, the tumult, the throb of pain in his head.

"Bruce!"

He stilled, came up abrupt, so short his shoes scuffled and twisted him. Bruce spun in place, crouched in ready position, newspaper forgotten and prepared to fight.

Dick emerged from the dismal fog, tattered and dirty, clothes in no better shape than Bruce's but otherwise seemingly unharmed. He rushed to Bruce's side, fit close and slung an arm over his shoulder, took most of Bruce's weight and hustled them out of the light.

"Not safe here. They're still after you, Bruce. Shit I thought I'd lost you there when some of them caught up to us." He nearly dragged Bruce, muscles tense, sweat that smelled sour of fear. "C'mon, not much further. C'mon," he urged.

Bruce's feet clopped and scraped and he barely kept up. His legs didn't want to function, were tired of supporting him and his head pounded a nightmare into his veins.

"What-"

"I'll explain when we get to one of my safehouses. I can patch you up, get us food and rest then we can figure out what next. Go underground, then go after Tim, get Al out of Arkham."

Bruce dug a heel down, ground and turned. "Arkham?" he demanded. "Tim--is he there too?"

Dick's hands bore in a punishing grip, held fast to bruise fingerprints in Bruce's forearm, his hip. "No time, Bruce. I know where they are and for the moment they're safe--if you can consider Arkham safe--but Gotham is after us, Bruce. They're after us and they're coming."

He jerked, shook his head. No. No. Gotham would. Thank him. Maybe not fully understand, maybe he couldn't continue, but they should be--glad. Appreciative. Willing at least to let him fade into obscurity, not face ridicule and ire.

"How do you think you ended up here, beat to hell?" Dick said, acid-laced tongue. "Damn this city and Gordon. Damn all the ingrates and whomever gave you up."

Bruce pried himself away enough to hook the swinging fire escape ladder as they passed under it. "Dick," he grated. "I don't need--I don't." He spit, suddenly awash with thin, hot saliva, too full. "We should find Tim, get Alfred first. Then see to me, see to getting us all out of here."

Dick had his arm, wouldn't let go and wasn't going to listen.

Bruce wouldn't be budged. He wasn't worth wasting precious time--Tim and Alfred's very lives. He'd run on worse, survived. He could do it again. Had to.

"I see them! There they are!"

"Don't let them get away again!"

"Time's up Wayne!"

He swung around and ducked, same time, and Dick was rooted, eyes wide and frantic. Bruce lunged, dove for Dick's legs. He didn't know who was yelling, who had found them, but it couldn't be good.

Shots rang out--shots in an alley, dark and wet and he knew this place, knew it too well--and he watched in horror as Dick gaped, blossom of crimson that swelled and spread in the white t-shirt over Dick's chest.

"No!" he screamed, scrabbled and clawed. Caught and clutched Dick in his arms, heard the hiss of blood in broken flesh, the rattle of air in broken lungs. "No no _no_ ," he repeated, again, again. Couldn't let Dick go and couldn't move and they were coming. Footsteps and fury and the clank of weapons.

"Dick," he whispered. Desperate, steel nearly drained from him, silent sobs wracking his frame. "Dick please, no."

Too soon they were upon him--Dick leaving him and his city had turned and the others, beyond his reach. He flew to his feet, straddled Dick's body, towered with rage.

The group of them--mixed crowd, Gotham citizens, all those he willingly protected night after night--stared at him. Looked upon. Horror and sneers, spectacle and derision. One of the men at the center stepped forward, twirled a bat in one hand and flung something at him with the other.

It fluttered into his chest and he stayed it, tangled his fingers in the fabric. A black and yellow cape now stained with red. Robin. _Tim_.

Not even fury was enough. The cold realization there was nothing left, nothing to lose sunk into his bones, steeped his senses. Alfred was just as likely gone. Barbara--perhaps by grace Gordon had spared his daughter.

Bruce let Robin's cape fall down onto Dick, faced the mob. Stood tall and nodded, begged his last forgiveness, said his last goodbyes.

"Bruce?"

Something warm and wet on his forehead. Bruce mumbled, tried to push it away.

"Shh, now. Shhh. You in there?"

He didn't want to surface. Not after-- couldn't. The warmth returned, gentle and tender, soothed and eased and wiped sweat and terror away.

"Got you good, this time."

Bruce blinked his eyes open. Blinked and scowled at the low, dim light that surrounded Dick.

"Dick?" Here, whole. He squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head.

"Hiya." Dick leaned down and kissed his forehead, along his nose, light on his lips. "Was worried about you. Been down after being gassed by the Scarecrow going on a day. Thought--well, let's just say I'm damn glad you finally decided to wake up."

Bruce held his breath and waited for it all to disappear. Waited for reality to assert, for it to crash down, reveal he was in that alley, near death or already gone, down beside Dick's cold form.

Dick's hand, warm, caressing, sure, cupped his cheek. Thumb swipes to the corner of his lips, fingers tangled in his hair. "It's okay, go on back to sleep. You need to rest, not just toss and turn in whatever nightmare Scarecrow's latest concoction stirred up in you."

Bruce put his hand over Dick's. Here, for real. He sighed and nuzzled, sought and was given a kiss, another. He squirmed and got nowhere and Dick laughed, relieved and weary and affection all, sluicing through Bruce like reassurance, redemption.

Dick knew what he was meaning, despite his lack of ability to say it or show it. Lifted the blankets and snuggled beside him, curled and cuddled and pressed, everything to everywhere.

"Sleep then Al can bring us tea, and Tim can bounce on the bed picking your brain about what it was like. Yeah?"

"Sure," he slurred, drawn out, nearly asleep. A last thing niggled, had him clinging to awareness. "Barbara?" he asked, so mumbled it was hardly discernible from breath.

Dick kissed his neck, nose-nudged along his collarbone. "Fine. Not even on this job. Now, get some sleep. We're all here and we'll be here when you come back again. Okay?"

Bruce nodded--sort of--pulled Dick to him and held on, slipped deep into a darkness that was comfort, warmth, and without dreams.


End file.
